Flash Fiction Fridays: Listless
By Richard Bon
Shari rearranges the pillows on her couch, vacuums the living room floor, and does two loads of laundry. She makes pancakes from scratch and then realizes she’s out of maple syrup. Improvising, she mashes some fresh raspberries, throws them into a pan and adds lemon juice, sugar, and a pinch of salt. The ingredients reduce to a sauce for the pancakes and she eats breakfast with a tall cup of coffee.
She remembers how Stephen would sit beside her on the couch and nap while she watched television. She’d give him kisses and he never seemed to mind if she walked away to do something else. It’s been five days since she’s seen him.
Restless, she leaves the house and walks up the street, turns down Brown when she reaches North Third, bustling with weekend brunch goers. It’s Fall, and the leaves are turning color, and she loves this time of year. Images of Stephen in their backyard surrounded by red and orange and brown leaves nearly drive her to tears.
She examines every row home on Bodine Street. Walking the narrow block, she tries to imagine the neighborhood a hundred years ago when the houses were built.
Back at her house on Fairmount, in the kitchen, standing at the sliding door to her yard, she hears rustling amongst the leaves.
She turns around and there, staring back at her is a ragged Stephen, meowing.
Richard Bon lives in Philadelphia with his family. He posts new flash fiction of his own or by a guest author on his blog, liminalfiction.com, every other Monday.